


Exactly what you asked for

by godbewithyouihavedone



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godbewithyouihavedone/pseuds/godbewithyouihavedone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If she lets his lips onto hers again, she will pull him back down. They will muss the sheets, and she will be no closer to bidding him goodbye, which is what this was for.</i>
</p><p>  <i>A foolish notion, to allow him what he desired as a parting gift.  But she has heard about the debates. The two of them treat the cabinet like a war table instead of a gathering of advisers.</i></p><p>  <i>Alexander does not know what she has done.</i></p><p>Thomas Jefferson and Angelica Schuyler Church share one night and a few uncomfortable truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exactly what you asked for

**Author's Note:**

> _Ever since I left the city, you / you got exactly what you asked for / running out of pages in your passport_
> 
>  
> 
> A Thomas Jefferson/Angelica Schuyler Church character study, using my own special blend of musical timeline and historical stuff, maybe sort of based on "Hotline Bling" by Drake. Fun fact: Jefferson did actually offer to take her to Niagara Falls in a letter!

He promises he will show her Niagara Falls. The rush sounds like crowds of a thousand, he says. Verdant forests surround walls of unending blue, and the drop could reach its end at eternity. She promises she will not mock his stutter. She will ignore that he is still flustered in his manner and awkward with his smiles when he talks to her.

She knows this game. Words upon glances upon meanings. The only maneuver sweeter than the ache of unconsummated love is a friend's promise, never to be claimed. They are not able to travel America together, and she is not able to pretend she sees more in him than he can show her.

The end of May in America sticks at her skin. She almost misses the gray rain sloughing off windowsills from London, the disappointed voice of John Church from the parlor.

In those moments, she can imagine herself merely wife and mother. A fixture in the household. The children and the guests orbit around her diligent arrangements. Uncomplicated and dull, she can wrap that life around herself like a nightgown. Another way of hiding the shame.

She has not known him in London. They met in Paris, at a salon, and it has taken them continents to reach this room, this bed.

He had asked and asked and asked, and she refused him, even as she carried his portrait close to her breast. He touches it now, long fingers gentling the edges of the wood. She blushes, for it is not as nice as its partner, the one Maria Cosway acquired. Maria has read her impassioned love letters that he sent her. In them, he speaks like a man in a storm, looking toward her dear friend as a beacon.

But Maria, like Angelica’s husband, is half a world away, and here they are.

“You will not visit me at Monticello?” he asks. He stretches, still lanky like a boy. The covers on the bed slip past his thin hips, ringed in dull brown freckles. “The flower-beds, at this time of year…”

“I have other appointments that coincide,” she says. “I told my husband I was visiting for the inauguration.” She does not name who the other appointments are with. Her father invited her to summer away with the grandchildren. She will see Eliza, for more than a few days, in more than letters. All those nights with luminaries are worth nothing compared to a time with her dear sister.

“I will be in New York, as well,” he says. “I have an apartment. It would provide the necessary discretion, if you choose to visit.”

“We are dear friends, discretion is not necessary. I am proud to count you among my companions,” she says. His eyelashes brush his high cheeks as she leans up and he prepares for her to kiss him. Their lips are a moment away and she cannot bring herself to do seal the gesture. He waits, for a breath, and then presses a kiss to her cheek.

If she lets his lips onto hers again, she will pull him back down. They will muss the sheets, and she will be no closer to bidding him goodbye, which is what this was for.

A foolish notion, to allow him what he desired as a parting gift. But she has heard about the debates. The two of them treat the cabinet like a war table instead of a gathering of advisers.

Alexander does not know what she has done.

“You are quite proud,” he says, humming as his mouth finds her neck. “And radiant. I had wondered how a woman who studies philosophy with as much ardor as a man would act in intimate matters. But my admiration of your grace and delicacy has never been more—”

“Please,” she says.

“Anything,” he tells her.

He holds her about the waist, and ever the seer, she thinks of what they ought to have been. If they had met before their marriages, before she left for England with John Church. Before his wife passed and he promised to remain a widower. She might have shown him how to survive the cutthroats and gossip of the New York social scene. They would have arrived in Paris together.

There is another choice in roads. If she could only let herself have this. He loves her, she thinks. He loves often. His mansion is as empty as her bed. She has forgotten, being with her husband for so long, how to be touched as a cherished lover and not as a duty. Her fleeting hopes awaken in his arms, and she cannot stay. Before long she will tire of him, and slip back into the abyss of her obligations.

So she will be alone again, no matter which way she ventures.

“This cannot…” she says. It is a beginning, never finished.

He turns her round, and his dark eyes look up and down the length of her body. “We can discuss those arrangements and bargains in a less sweet moment.”

She rolls her eyes. “You are sweeter than I imagined, my teeth are almost sore with it. We must discuss it, why not now?”

“I want to remember now,” he says, softly.

She stands, letting his hands slip away from her. There are too many layers to dress. She begins to pace, the cold of the floorboards under her feet almost calming her mind.

“I will not tell Hamilton.”

Angelica turns.

“Maria spoke of your closeness, I knew his presence would be a barrier, but I cannot see why you worry. I am a gentleman—”

And she laughs, because Maria whispered secrets to her as well.

“I cannot in good conscience support his work and offer you my love,” she says. “My friendship was always constant, but I decided long ago we could not engage in this way. I do not enjoy shutting you out, and I should not have taken you here.”

“I would rather have this night to know I was the one who had the good sense to accept you. Run to your immigrant, and let us write letters and cross paths at state dinners. We could be happy. But I suppose you would rather look toward the idea of love than allow yourself to stop suffering. I have won against him in this, at least.”

He puts his hand out, for her to take, like they are at a social function, trading niceties.

“I suppose you are adept at recognizing the value of sisters,” she says.

Now he stands, snarl in his features. “You were the one who broached the topic of others. I cannot pretend I lack weakness as easily as you are able to.”

Angelica wants to tell him all her truths. How she knows what it is to look for the shadow of her desires in any passing darkness. He is brilliant and passionate, and yet it is not quite better than everything unspoken between her and Alexander.

“Forgive me,” she says, despite knowing he will not.

He does not answer, but he finds her chemise, discarded on the floor, and offers it. She slips it over her head. The rings of ruffles and lace around her wrists and neck constrict in a way they did not before. When she shakes her hair from beneath it, he presses the petticoats around her waist, one after the other. She sits on the bed, and he looks up, his fingers as careful dressing her as they had been in the shedding of her layers. When he rolls her stockings to the top of her thigh, he presses his lips there. She stares at the ceiling of the cramped room, tears gathering in her eyes.

“The gown,” he says. Her beautiful green gown, bought by her husband in Paris, is in a heap on the floor.

“I will write you as soon as I arrive at Albany,” she says. They turn to face each other. She runs her hand up his side, over the edges of his ribs. This time, he leans in for a kiss, and she does not abandon him.


End file.
